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It’s that time of year. Reblog with how many you’ve heard of.

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Too many Voids 🥰🐈🖤

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Customer: MY GRANDFATHERS NAME DMV: CUM GUZZLER Verdict: DENIED

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This is canon. To me

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I refuse to watch medical dramas on the principle of it but the phrase “gay medical drama” has my attention

There's supposed to be a ding before the doors open. Where was the ding?

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Link to tweet

Anyone who doesn't vote for Democrats has this attitude towards women:

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I was… compelled to make this…..

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Literally the hottest couple in the MCU right now.

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honest captures of the moment over a 'perfect' vacuum. thats where the soul is

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My Bury Your Gays review

I’ve been meaning to post this one for awhile.

Bury Your Gays was incredible. Even within the first few pages, I felt seen in a way no other book has made me feel seen. It’s a love letter to every queer person who ever tried to create anything.

I have always felt inspiration like a force, an entity, and Bury Your Gays makes you remember what that kick of inspiration hits like with a bittersweet aftertaste.

As a queer person living in Los Angeles who does a bit of creating now and then, this book felt like a love letter to me. It flawlessly captures the feeling of living in this city, of the vastness that feels like it could swallow you whole and the tiresome, endless vanity. But it also captures those beautiful times in between all that, the small moments of connection, of finding and supporting the little spots of light out there like yourself.

In terms of queer horror, it was so damn cathartic.

It’s a story about Los Angeles, about creation and inspiration, but also about meeting your queer trauma face to face and making peace with it. It’s about realizing the past has no control over you anymore, about accepting these events that made you and letting go.

It spoke to me very deeply. I laughed, I cried, I grinned from beginning to end. Thank you @drchucktingle for giving us this masterpiece.

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The vinyl comes with... this. This is not the lyrics to the songs. I'm gonna transcribe it, because I think the first time you listen should be with this.

You are about to listen to an album by the Glass Animals. You don't always listen to albums from beginning to end, but maybe you will this time. It was written for you. (Linear Notes by Gabrielle Zevin)

SHOW PONY

You are a child. Before you were a child, your parents were children. Most origin stories begin with love, and yours is no different. Once upon a time, two people fell in love, and then it ended. It's the first love story you were every told, and it teaches you the one certainty in life is that all things end. From this point forward, you are not a romantic. They call you the cynic, and to protect yourself, you take on many forms.

WHATTHEHELLISHAPPENING

You are kidnapped. You are in the trunk of a moving car, fetal position, darkness, screech of the tires against the road, the scent of gasoline. You don't know how you got there, but it isn't the worst place you have ever found yourself, and in a way, it feels inevitable. You know you could die, so you find yourself thinking about all the people you have ever loved. The trunk is like a womb. You could live here forever but eventually you'd get lonely. Your relentless need for company is your hamarita.

CREATURES IN HEAVEN

You are a psychic. You ask your lover if they want to know the hour and the day that the two of your will part. They laugh at you, and they say they don't believe in psychics. You suspect that their failure to believe in your gift might be the problem that leads to the demise of your relationship. But who cares? This relationship ends in three months, and you may as well enjoy it. Evanescence can sometimes be a profound pleasure.

WONDERFUL NOTHING

You are a prizefighter who is in love with a boxer. You say, "It's a bad idea." (JAB, JAB, CROSS.) And the boxer says, "It's only a bad idea if it gets in the way of our work." (SLIP.) And you say, "Promise me you'll never pull any punches." (CROSS. CROSS. HOOK.) The boxer swears they won't. (SLIP. JAB.) But when you fight, the boxer always pulls their punches, and you never do. You're pretty sure this makes you a bad person. You're a prizefighter, and you do not love this boxer or anyone enough to pull punches. (JAB. CROSS. HOOK.) Just before throwing the knockout punch, you whisper, "I love you so fucking much."

A TEAR IN SPACE

You are a sock. You are an earplug. You are a miniature glass horse. You are easy to misplace. You are you, so you think you matter. You are nothing. No one even notices when you left the party.

I CAN'T MAKE YOU FALL IN LOVE AGAIN

You are an astrophysicist. You believe you can use sound waves to control time and space. A song is a time machine, you tell your colleagues. If you sing the right song, you could transport the lover to a particular time and place. You could reverse time, and if you could reverse time, you could make them love you again. Your belief in science occasionally makes you pathetic.

HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE BOMB

You are a damsel, and you are in love with a monster. You're not sure how it happened. You'd been warned about such creatures by the fairy tales of your youth. But in bedtime stories, the monster always presented as monster. The beast was hirsute, the vampire had fangs, the wolf in your grandmother's clothing was clearly not your grandmother. But your monster is clean cut and has good teeth. They knock at the door. You invite them in, and just like that, you are fucking a monster. You should be upset about it, but you aren't. The thing they don't tell you about monsters is that they are sexy as hell.

WHITE ROSES

You are Proteus. You are a god and you can change forms when the situation calls for it. This is hand for work, but difficult when it comes to relationships. You have occasionally been guilty of taking a form that you knew would make you lovable to some unsuspecting mortal. But it always ends the same way. A terrible row at an inconvenient time-- say, just before you're about to leave for the airport-- and then, you're forced to reveal yourself. You don't always mean to change forms, but it's second nation for you to shift a bit here and there-- pretend you like a certain band, express an enthusiasm for sport. Are you shapeshifting, or are you concealing yourself, and is there a difference in the end? Still, you love making people fall in love with you. Every time you do it, you promise you'll never do it again. And they you do it again.

ON THE RUN

You are an escape artist. You are handcuffed, straitjacketed, loaded into a zipped and padlocked duffle bag, wrapped in chains, tossed into the bottom of the ocean. It is billed as "The Greatest Escape of the Greatest Escape Artist, and the Culmination of a Career of Death-Defying Acts!"

The spectators on the pier anticipate your deliverance. They are sure you'll surface because you always surface. They aren't fearful; they are waiting to be dazzled. What they cannot know is how bored you are of dazzling.

You exit the bag, careful to take the props of your confinement so there will be no remains. You swim to another, distant pier. You don't see the people on the pier cry. You don't read your obituary. It's no longer your concern.

A week later, you are homesick, and you concede that your plan has failed. You miss the people on the pier and your cat and your bed and your favorite restaurant and your wristwatch. You don't remember what problems your faked death was going to solve so you can't say if it solved them.

The greatest power in the universe is nostalgia, and it that's true, maybe the people on the pier will forgive you. maybe you could come back from the dead. Now wouldn't that be the greatest escape ever?

LOST IN THE OCEAN

Who are you, anyway?

Why are so many songs addressed to you?

It's simple, you think. The songs are for you because I love you so fucking much, and when you say you, you mean all the yours: the parents and the child, the damsel and the monster, the escape artist and the crowd on the pier, the sock and the one who forgets the sock, the prizefighter and the boxer, and the world that contains all these people. You are all the lovers you failed, and all the ones who failed you. You are the lovers you haven't yet encountered-- there will be many because this world is filled with people to love. You are the singer, and you are the song. And you conclude that the only way to resist the ephemerality of all things is by singing love songs to you, whoever you are, wherever you are in the universe.

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Helluva Love Affair

Playlist that kept me inspired.

Head canons regarding the comic under the cut

I imagine Fizz had very little privacy during his time with Mammon. I imagine him sharing a dorm room with several other clowns, because Mammon is cheap. That's why he is excited about having his own room.

I think Fizz also is not used to being touched with consent. Fans grabbing him, Mammon's staff touching without asking. Just a lot of unwanted hands on him.

Despite being very famous and looking like Fizz had it all, I think Mammon took majority of his earnings and he had very little to use for himself. And that he was in severe debt to Mammon over the prosthetics.

Because Ozzie refers to Fizz as business partner, I imagine Fizz has much bigger role in Ozzie's company just than an MC. I think he is actually the manager of Ozzie's, handling events, special nights, performers etc. He knows how to put up a party!

The "Valentine's Day Gang Bang Night" outfit was definitely just for Ozzie. Fizz got tired of waiting and wanted to well and truly seduce Ozzie.

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"Some events are timeless, I guess, stuck between past, present, and future. They're a different color than the rest. A different scale. A different tense. When you turn them into a screenplay or a song or a novel or even a piece of erotic fanfiction, these are the moments that will outlive your body." - Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle

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SO

I have this thought that perhaps a deep sign of affection and attachment (like marriage level) between imps might be the interlocking or touching/clacking of horns. Fizz, having lost his, sees that crucial social touchstone as barred from him, perhaps making him an "unfit" romantic partner, unable to ever engage in this act.

HOWEVER, Ozzie has a beak. And therefore, can softly bite at Fizz's horn stubs to emulate the affectionate action and familiar, yearned for sound of deep connection. It's not exactly the same, but it feels and sounds like love "should" to Fizz, ensuring him things can work out for him anyway and assuring him he is not "less" than any other.

....GOD I hope that makes sense LOL